The Legend Mackinnon (22 page)

“Why is that?” He took another step forward.

Her heart was pounding and her skin dampened in a cold sweat.
He will harm you
. The words echoed in her mind.
He is your guide
.

“Who are you that this dead man might need your words and your presence?” He took another step.

Crazy, she thought, that’s who I am. Cailean locked her knees against the urge to step back. “I’m not here for him.”

A smile ghosted across his lips. “In that you are quite right. The dead don’t care who stands over them.”

“You don’t believe that the spirits of the dead somehow know who mourns them?”

“I believe it makes no difference. They are gone and you are here. You can do nothing to alter their existence, whatever it may or may not be. The only reason for talking to the dead is because the living soul believes he or she will benefit from it somehow.”

“What a cynical view you have of human kind, Mr.…?”

There was the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “MacKinnon.”

“I suppose I should have known that.” This was The Remote, the man she hoped would provide some answers to the questions she had about her great uncle. This was the guide, sent to help her find those answers.

This was the empty angel who would haunt her. Harm her.

“Perhaps the only thing the living hope to attain is comfort,” she said. “Is that such a bad thing to seek?”

“Not bad perhaps,” he conceded. “Pathetic maybe. Foolhardy certainly.”

Anger bubbled up through the fear. She didn’t even want to be here, much less be lectured on the selfishness of her actions! “The fact that you actually believe that explains why you live out in the middle of nowhere with several dozen sheep as your only comfort. Anything with a higher intellect would search for comfort elsewhere, perhaps from someone who isn’t too cold and harsh and full of himself to give it.”

He seemed wholly unaffected by her outburst, which only served to further infuriate her. She blew out a harsh sigh. “Look. I’m sorry,” she said, though she was truthfully anything but. “I’m not usually given to emotional outbursts.
It generally takes more than one opinionated cynic to provoke me into a display of temper.”

He moved again, only this time he didn’t stop until he was standing a few feet from her. “I suppose I will have to work on that.”

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt,” she responded evenly. “You might be surprised. You might actually make a friend or two.”

“Oh, I’m no’ interested in makin’ friends, lass,” he said. The smile this time was a slow transformation, the impact even greater as he gradually, calculatingly unleashed its power. He closed the distance between them.

Cailean was riveted to the spot. She couldn’t run. She could barely breathe. Swallowing was impossible.

“I meant I’d have tae work on provoking ye,” he said, ever so softly. “I find yer ‘display of temper’ and yer ‘emotional outbursts’ quite entertaining.” He reached up and ran a single fingertip down along the side of her face. “And I have no’ been entertained in a verra, verra, long time.”

“I
’d prefer that you didn’t touch me.”

“I’d prefer that I didn’t want to,” he replied easily, dropping his hand back to his side. “But then, many preferences of mine go unfulfilled. I’ll survive this one. I survive everything.”

Her brows furrowed as she detected the slight sarcasm he’d injected in that last part. Sharp, he thought. And too beguiling for her own good. She was no classic beauty. Her long hair was by far her best asset, he decided. Her green eyes were too widely set and her mouth too wide and lips too thin. He supposed the high cheekbones were what lent her face its character, along with a jaw that was entirely too rigid. What exactly had called to him to touch her he could not say.

And yet, one touch, he discovered, was not going to be enough. And he wasn’t at all certain that she hadn’t been as affected as he by their fleeting first connection.

“Who are you?” he asked, reminding himself that down the path of curiosity lay pain and eventual heartache, especially where a woman was involved.
Always
where a woman was involved. But by Christ those eyes of hers called to a
man. Hell, a century had passed since he’d done something this foolish.

“My name is Cailean,” she said at last, and grudgingly enough that he knew it to be the truth.

“I am John,” he said. “But I am known as Rory.”

He had no idea what had possessed him to tack on that last part. It had been so long since he’d spoken it, the name had felt odd on his lips.

But that was nothing compared to the reaction it struck in her. She went pale as white linen flapping in a cold breeze. “I’ve been known to irritate some, but hardly to the point where the mere mention of my name strikes terror into the soul.”

His rare attempt at humor failed miserably. He should never have come back here. “Yer starin’ at me as if ye seen a ghostie,” he grumbled.

“Have I?” she whispered.

It took a second for her question to sink in. When it did, he laughed. It felt surprisingly good, so he laughed again.

“I’ll take that as a no?”

Oh, she was a good one for arching that fine brow, she was. He decided he rather liked her when she was riled up. Far better than he’d liked seeing her pale and frightened. That made his insides react in ways he’d long ago learned would only bring him misery.

“I am mortal,” he assured her. He found himself wanting to trace her lower lip, wanting to compare its softness to that of her cheek. “Irritatingly, eternally mortal.”

“The alternative isn’t all that great, you know.”

“No, I wouldn’t know.”

Concern flooded those damnable eyes and he cursed his loose tongue. What was it about her that made him reckless?

“Has your life been so horrible that you’d rather it end?”

“I am not sure what it is I want.” That wasn’t entirely
true. He knew what he wanted, at least in part. He understood all too well the stirring in his blood, the hunger beginning to rise in him. He had thought that particular need had been permanently vanquished long ago. Apparently he was wrong.

There was still one woman on earth who could rouse him.

He should have stayed in the hills with his sheep.

“I can’t believe you want death,” she said.

“You have no idea.”

He would have walked away then, back to his mountain, back to his sheep, back to his sanctuary. He would have, if she hadn’t touched him.

She took hold of his arm. Perhaps she’d sensed that he was about to leave, about to run.

“Wait,” she said.

Her grasp was firm and strong. Surprisingly so in one so slender. He looked into her eyes and found another surprise. Resolve.

“Now you suddenly prefer my company?”

A small smile quirked her lips, enchanting him in ways he didn’t at all appreciate. “Someone once told me that many preferences go unfulfilled. I’ll survive this one.”

Damned if his own lips didn’t twitch. She chose that moment to let him go. He immediately mourned the broken link.

“Did you know that you’re practically a legend to the local townspeople?”

He had to work at concealing his reaction. Legend, was he? He took a moment to scan the empty horizon, then looked back to her. “I’m hardly local to anywhere. I doubt anyone knows of my existence.”

“Tell that to the regulars at Tally’s pub in Portree.”

“Portree? That’s hours from here.”

She shrugged, obviously enjoying this. “Ever since you took on crazy Tommy’s sheep and drove them into these
mountains your reputation has taken on mythic proportions.”

He frowned, not at all happy with this bit of information. “What reputation? I don’t even know them, nor they me.” He heard his voice begin to rise and worked to even it out. Damn it all but this is what he got for interfering! “And what do they care about Thomas Walpole’s sheep for God’s sake? No one cared about the man when he was alive.”

He took a steadying breath. Maybe it was best she had interfered. Better to know exactly what the folks were saying about him. He wasn’t ready to leave here, but leave he would if he must. An unexpected pang squeezed at his heart. Dear God, what was becoming of him?

“Why did Tommy leave them to you?”

“Thomas was an interesting man, if a bit misunderstood. I met him while out wandering.” And had found an unexpected kindred soul. Not a friend exactly, Thomas was too eccentric to allow that. But the man loved to spout his ideas, and Rory had all the time in the world to listen. “He said I needed a trade and taught me about sheep. When he passed on, they became mine.” Whether he’d wanted the wee beasties or not. But he’d had nothing better to do. Perhaps Thomas had been wiser than he’d known. He snapped out of the reverie. “What else do they know of me?”

“Nothing much actually. The tales are more folk legend than truth. You’re like a cross between Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster. They call you The Remote.”

“What nonsense is that? And why in hell do they care? I dinna bother them and I ask for nothing but solitude.”

“You took Crazy Tommy’s sheep and left his land behind. Then you herded them up here into the Quiraing, where no man survives. It spawned a tale or two in the pubs. You know how that goes.”

He did know and he didn’t like it.

“Of course, no one agrees exactly. To some you’re just another loony, as crazy as old Tommy, to others you’re this mystery man. Everyone has a story to tell, but no one can claim seeing you themselves.”

“And what is your interest in all this?”

His question startled the smile from her face. It was as if the clouds had suddenly covered the sun.

“Who said I was interested?”

“Ye dinna lie well, Cailean.” He wasn’t sure if it was his accusation or the use of her name that made her pupils suddenly dilate, nor was he sure why the reaction made his pulse rate speed up.

“Who said I—”

He stopped her with the barest touch of his fingertip to her lips. Och, but they were soft, like flower petals. He’d gone daft for sure, spouting thoughts like a poet. And yet he traced her lips before pulling his hand away.

“You listened to their stories. You came back here. You’re interested.”

“I came to talk to the dead, as you noted earlier.”

“Ah yes, seeking comfort from a soul already departed. You strike me as a smarter lass than that. What has this man to offer you from the grave?”

“Answers.”

“Did you get them?”

“No.” She looked away. “I only got more questions.”

He thought about how he’d first seen her, standing transfixed, her eyes unseeing. A dark cloud of suspicion moved into his mind. Anger, centuries old, flickered to life within him.

“Who is this Lachlan you come to ask questions of?”

“You don’t know?”

He shook his head, beginning to think maybe he should have paid closer attention to his surroundings after all.

“I’m surprised. I mean, he’s the only one who has been
buried here in a century. As the owner of this land, I assumed he’d bought the plot from you.”

“I’ve only been here several years. Perhaps he arranged the purchase earlier. I don’t keep track of such things.”

“It didn’t perk your interest when someone showed up and began digging a hole in your cemetery?”

“I saw it being dug, but what care is it of mine if another MacKinnon needs burying? God knows it happens to them all at one point or another.”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

She didn’t answer right away. She studied his face, his eyes most of all. His patience came to an abrupt end. He grabbed her arms. “Know what?” He felt the dread crawling around in his belly. Christ, why hadn’t he stayed in the damn hills with Thomas’ sheep?

She pulled her arms from his grasp and stepped away from him. “The man they buried here is a Claren.”

His face contorted in what could only be termed rage. He spun around to face the headstone, eyes blazing, hands clenched into white knuckled fists.

Cailean backed away carefully. “What difference does it make to you if—”

He whirled on her, making her stumble another couple of steps backward.

“The only good Claren is a dead Claren, but even dead he cannot lay his bones to rest in MacKinnon ground!”

His words, spoken with more emotion than she thought he contained, shook her hard. She struggled to keep her thoughts focused and her tone even. “The plot is his. I asked the solicitor. It’s all legal. Who did he buy it from, if not you?”

It was clear he was struggling to maintain a toehold on his temper. Finally, she was getting somewhere. She just hoped her interpretation of her vision had been correct on the physical harm point.

“I have no idea how he got his hands on this plot.”

“Well, the most logical person would be from whoever owned this land before you came here.”

He said nothing, merely stalked away from her. He stopped at the bench, his back still facing her.

Understanding dawned. “You don’t actually own the land, do you? Not legally anyway.”

He didn’t turn around. She could see his shoulders move as he took several forceful breaths, before blowing out one long sigh of disgust.